


The Idle Investigator's Distraction

by Berty



Series: A Fit Of Fashion [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Clothing Kink, Dog Tags, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Masturbation, Military Uniforms, Sex Toys, Sexting, Sherlock Has a Military Kink, Sherlock is good at finding things, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-05 10:17:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16365998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Berty/pseuds/Berty
Summary: Sherlock was bored. And resourceful.





	The Idle Investigator's Distraction

**Author's Note:**

> While this series is dedicated to the ever lovely and deserving 88thParallel(Canada Holm), this particular instalment is also written for Saladscream, one of my longest standing fandom friends whose birthday it was yesterday! Sorry I didn't get it ready on the day - and much like last year's gift (In Your Own Time (But Quite Quickly)), it was finished, edited and posted in the last 36 hours, so I'm sorry if I've missed anything!) I hope your birthday was marvellous, darling.

The first image was a little dark and it was hard to see in the artificial light of Tesco’s biscuit aisle. John tipped the screen this way and that before he recognised the edge of a lampshade, which made that their bedroom. So why was Sherlock sending him photos of his…shoulder and throat… except what was he wearing around his…?

Oh!

Oh, God!

John tried to quiet his breath and glanced up to see if he was attracting attention but London shoppers were obviously made of sterner stuff and no one was looking his way. He cleared his throat and jumped when the phone chimed again.

This time it was unmistakably Sherlock’s neck with the scatter of moles that John could still feel the texture of on his tongue. And draped around that perfect throat were his army identity tags that _had_  been hidden in a locked box at the bottom of the wardrobe upstairs in his old bedroom when he’d left the flat half an hour ago. Sherlock’s long, perfect fingers were caressing the chain as if they were part of John himself.

**I was bored. S.H.**

Muttering some appropriately inappropriate words for his high-maintenance menace under his breath John put down his shopping basket so he could use both hands to type his reply, but another message came in before he had time.

**These distracted me for a while but now I am tiring of them. Perhaps I can find something else to amuse me. S.H.**

**_Oi! Stop going through my stuff, you git!_** John typed but no sooner had he sent it than his phone chimed again.

The thing about fatigues was that despite being designed for and being adequate at concealing your whereabouts in arid, desert-like environments, they were very distinctive in urban London. Particularly when they were wrapped around the hips of your bored boyfriend who had neglected to fasten the button fly in favour of sliding his hand beneath the waistband instead. The picture was grainy and underexposed and must have been taken from close to Sherlock’s hip. If he squinted, John could make out the shape of the soft, ruddy hairs that trailed from Sherlock’s navel down to where it became coarser and darker. John loved to ghost kisses over those hairs and feel them brush against his mouth.

He swallowed and bit his lip to remind himself that he was in a public place and could not groan or curse aloud. Instead he lifted his eyes and looked for the nearest exit, stepping over his abandoned basket of shopping as he spotted daylight and wove his way through vacant members of the public who were suddenly moving too damn slowly.

When the next message pinged on the phone that he had stuffed in his jacket pocket, John was torn. There were hazards out in the street for a distracted man walking fast enough to get funny looks. Or maybe it was because he was walking funny – there was actually an element of adjustment necessary which had him squirming a little as he hurried home.

There were small, yappy dogs on ridiculously long leads, cyclists popping on and off the pavement to avoid traffic signals and parents with strollers filled with chubby, sticky infants; so many obstacles that could conceivably send him sprawling. It was positively dangerous to continue his break-neck speed and pick up another text from a bored, semi-naked, _playful_   Sherlock Holmes.

He thumbed his phone open and didn’t even pretend that he wasn’t going to. There were two messages waiting for him.

**These were quite rough once but you’ve worn them soft, most notably on the knees, the pockets, the waist and the fly. S.H.**

**The contrast between the heavy fabric and those areas that friction has smoothed makes for an interesting contrast in texture. It’s quite arousing. S.H.**

“Right,” John muttered, dodging a delivery driver loaded with boxes. He put his phone on silent, stuck it in his pocket and zipped it shut. They weren’t really trainers he was wearing but the soles were rubbery and had some tread to them. Besides, it was only four or five streets.

John ran.

Four minutes and one painfully long wait at a pedestrian crossing later, John burst through the door of 221 Baker Street and made Mrs Hudson squawk.

“Oh, John! All this rushing around! You get more like his nibs every day,” she scolded him. She was dressed for outside, on her way somewhere, thank goodness, John thought.

“Sorry, Mrs Hudson. In a bit of a hurry,” he said dodging around her without stopping.

“Well I can see that dear. There’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.”

John was already on the stairs, climbing awkwardly up backwards so as not to appear rude. “No, of course. Got a bit of a case on. Sherlock sent me out for some…uh,” he gestured to the floor above, “…evidence. You know how it is,” he shrugged.

Mrs Hudson gave him a look that conveyed that she knew _exactly_ how it was and pointedly put her coat on. “I’m off out for a couple of hours then,” she said, opening the door. “Will that be long enough?”

“Hmm? Long enough?” John asked, distracted.

“Well, there’s nothing wrong with my hearing either and you two can be awfully noisy.”

“Sorry, what?” John asked, dragging his eyes back from the door to their flat.

Mrs Hudson just rolled her eyes at him and closed the door behind her. She still hadn’t forgiven them for the ‘unlocked door’ incident, John thought and felt the inevitable blush that accompanied his memories of _that_ creep into his cheeks. It always amused Sherlock how mortified he could become over something so “obvious”.

_Of course she knows we’re having sex,_ he’d said, _I’ve been walking funny for six months and you couldn’t look any more smug if you tried._

There was a reason why Sherlock didn’t have many close friends, John reflected, turning and running up the last few stairs.

He didn’t try to hide it when he finally shut (and locked) the door to their flat behind him. There was little point. Sherlock probably knew exactly when he would arrive to within a 45 second tolerance.

John hung up his jacket and slipped off his shoes before padding down to their bedroom and quietly letting himself in.

The curtains hadn’t yet been drawn back and the light of the overcast day was too feeble to make much of a difference where it slid into the room.

Sherlock had kicked the covers down to the end of their bed and he was naked apart from the fatigue trousers and the ID tags that glinted dully around his neck. Flat on his back, knees bent, his feet were pressed into the mattress and his hands were fisted on his thighs, rubbing up and down his long muscles with the heel of his palms. The trousers were unfastened, but the pressure of his cock against the fabric made it bulge obscenely, as if it was ready to burst out any second. His eyes shut and his face smooth, John knew he was basking in the touch of the material against his bare skin.

Sherlock was a sensualist – a fact he kept firmly within their four walls. John had always thought his clothes were chosen for aesthetic reasons, but in truth he was more interested in the weave of the fabric than the colour, tailoring or label. John was surprised it took him so long to notice when all the evidence was in front of him – the high thread-count sheets, the silk dressing gowns, the ratty, old cotton t-shirt, washed-thin but gossamer soft. Sherlock’s coat that was fitted across his shoulders but flared out dramatically in a way that made John think that there were hidden weights in the hem. Even Sherlock’s disguises, like the drug addict ensemble he wore a little too convincingly, were chosen for the way they felt against his skin wherever possible.

And now John was getting ahead of himself and needed to take a deep breath. He closed the door behind him, crossed his arms over his chest and watched.

Sherlock’s hands were open now, running slowly to his knees and back to his upper thighs. The brushing sound of the fabric was startlingly memorable. Battle dress uniform was always starchy and rough when you first got it. Like new boots, it took days and weeks of sun, dirt, sweat and action to begin to soften. Each time it was washed, it returned to you a little more familiar, a little more _yours_  than before. So John knew exactly what Sherlock was feeling with each pass of his long, cool fingers – the places it had worn thin, the seams that were softened by constant wear, the subtle sheen around the fly and the pockets where he had handled the fabric most often.

He shivered, glad that Sherlock was too engrossed in his hedonism to notice.

“I ought to have you up on charges, you know,” John said, low and quiet.

Sherlock merely smiled, not even bothering to open his eyes.

“This disreputable behaviour whilst wearing the Queen’s uniform is conduct unbecoming at least.”

Shifting his hips provocatively, Sherlock hummed and let his fingers stroke a little higher that time, so they ghosted over his cock before returning to knead the muscles of his thighs.

Swallowing the saliva that flooded his mouth, John leaned back against the door and admired the elegant bastard; his bare toes, slender ankles, smooth belly, the quiet wiry strength in his arms and shoulders, and the way his hair curled a little damply against his forehead.

“And you should stand by your bed and salute when an officer enters the barracks.”

“I have no intention of standing by my bed, but I can assure you that I am saluting, John.” Sherlock rumbled smoothly, his voice heady like the promise of an approaching summer storm.

He rolled his head, opened his fathomless eyes and quirked a lazy lopsided smile at John, openly palming the bulge in his trousers. _John’s_  trousers.

“Subtle,” John smirked in return.

“I wasn’t attempting to be subtle. I was attempting to make you come back to bed and entertain me,” Sherlock drawled, confident in his charm and his ability to talk John into almost anything. And for a moment, John was so immensely proud of his unconventional, brilliant, endlessly fascinating boyfriend that he couldn’t speak. He’d come so far since their first tentative attempts to love each other, both physically and emotionally.

John rolled his eyes and sighed to clear the lump in his throat, but Sherlock saw right through him as usual and his smile turned from something seductive into something so helplessly gentle it made John flood with warmth everywhere.

“Next time, could we not wait until I’m in Tesco’s?” he asked. “And you seem to be doing a good job of entertaining yourself.”

“Don’t be difficult, John or I will be forced to defile Her Majesty’s uniform even further,” Sherlock threatened, cupping himself roughly and lifting his chin in response to the touch.

“Well maybe I can overlook the transgression this once. Besides, maybe I want to see you defile my old uniform.”

John had no intention of moving – he was enjoying the view very much from where he was. He lifted his eyebrows and bit his bottom lip, daring Sherlock to follow through on his threat. “Maybe if you do, it will encourage me to come over there and defile it a bit myself.”

Sherlock was a beautiful man and John had told him that enough times that he was beginning to believe it. He was also a massive show-off, and the combination of those two things was paying dividends for John right then because Sherlock was _performing_   for him.

He had the head of his cock tucked just out of sight and even though there was room to slide his long, slender hand in there too, it was easy to see every stroke of his fist, every twist of his wrist and every squeeze. He spread his thighs a little more and edged the waistband of John’s fatigues further down, showing a little more of his hips and surely his cock had to spring free then, but however John tipped his head, he couldn’t quite make it out.

Sherlock had to have been at this for some time by then, what with the photos and John’s run back, and it didn’t take long for a flush to flood his cheeks, creep down his neck and onto his chest, rosy and uneven.

John was visited by a sudden moment of insight; of Sherlock, bored and alone, teasing himself with the cold kiss of his dog tags and the scent of his old uniform, pleasuring himself _just_  enough to bring him to the edge, then backing off so he could wait for John to be here to see him in his arousal.

He had to shift his hips a little, his own erection becoming uncomfortably constrained where he stood, giving Sherlock the audience he’d so clearly awaited. And, of course, wanting him so intensely it was the most perfect agony. John could feel his pulse in his groin, a cold sweat break out along his hairline and his fingers itch to touch and stroke and worship.

It wasn’t easy.

Within a couple of minutes of mouth-watering, slick sounds, Sherlock’s stomach muscles were tensing, his hips surging up to meet his fist. He clearly needed more room to work as he pushed the pants lower still, uncovering the glorious sight of his cock, leaking thick drops, which pooled on his belly. He was using the short, brutal strokes that he liked when he was getting close. Shoulders pressed into the mattress and head tipped back, his spine arched and fell, arched and fell, each punctuated with whispered groans and harsh breaths.

He was so close now, focussing his attention on the head of his glistening cock, that he didn’t hear John surrender and cross the space between them. His eyes blew wide when he felt the soft brush of John’s fingertips whispering up his side and grazing patterns across his chest.

“Come on then, my beauty,” John murmured and pinched the peak of his right nipple hard. He couldn’t take his eyes off him as Sherlock shuddered, gasped and came all over his fist, his belly and onto the fabric of the fatigues, lost to the sensation - debauched, shameless and utterly erotic.

John kissed him then, to bring him back gently. He stripped off his jumper and shirt, lay down beside Sherlock and took his pleasure-slackened lips with his own. Sherlock responded with slow, soft kisses at first, which gradually became more interested as he ran his hands over John’s body to where he needed them most.

John felt like he would come in his pants with only mild encouragement having watched his boyfriend come his brains out already and his own ardour rising with each lazy pass of Sherlock’s hands on him. If he could just get him to focus his attention on his cock…or perhaps he could rub himself off against the already ruined fatigues if Sherlock would stay still for long enough.

“Hmm,” Sherlock pondered, his larynx buzzing against John’s greedy lips. “You mentioned  _mutual_ defiling, John and while evidence of my own digression is currently making a mess of the uniform of Her Majesty’s finest, to say nothing of our sheets, I can’t help but notice that you have yet  to keep up your end of the bargain.”

Only Sherlock Holmes could have come up with a sentence like that so soon after such a powerful orgasm, John concluded as his lust-fogged brain parsed it down to ‘my turn to come now.’

With a deeper, sweeter kiss still, Sherlock rolled away from John and with enviable grace, reached over to his bedside table where a tube of lubricant was waiting. He tossed it to land by John’s belly, then knelt at the head of the bed, watching over his shoulder as John’s mind came back online to snatch at the lube and shuffle himself up behind Sherlock, sucking kisses up and down his spine while he struggled his fly and the tube top open.

John quickly coated his fingers and watched as Sherlock shimmied the fatigues lower so he could spread his legs, offering John the tempting display of his pretty, pale arse and the fine dark hairs that dusted his cheeks and thighs. Wanting to bend down and take a bite of such perfection, John groaned and contented himself with a double handful.

John traced a finger up the middle of him, feeling heat and fresh sweat and was that … had he…?

“You  _were_  gone an awfully long time, John,” Sherlock explained in a voice that reminded John how utterly desperate he was to bury himself in the very sweetness that was currently filled by a plug that John had bought a week ago to gauge Sherlock’s reaction to adding sex toys to their repertoire but had yet to find the right moment to introduce. Apparently Sherlock had decided that for them in his usual inimitable manner and John couldn’t find it in himself right then to be annoyed.

He _had_ to look.

Pushing Sherlock’s shoulders lower, John leaned back and was greeted by the sight of the smooth black top of the toy, shining with leaked lube from the dusky pinkness of Sherlock’s hole.

John’s cock twitched and ached in anticipation. He reached out and ran a finger around the edge of it where Sherlock’s skin was hot and stretched already. Taking a firm hold of it, John eased it out a centimetre or two, watching as Sherlock’s body gave it up so reluctantly before reseating it into him fully accompanied by a whimper and a full body ripple from his boyfriend

With frustratingly slippery and clumsy fingers John finally freed his cock and had to take a moment to breathe through the relief and the surge of excitement. He added a little more lube to his hand and carefully coated his shaft, trying not to look at either Sherlock or himself.

He tugged on Sherlock’s knees a little, moving him further back from the headboard and Sherlock instinctively dipped his upper body, presenting himself for John’s attentions.

John retraced the path of his earlier explorations and gently pushed his index finger between Sherlock’s hole and the plug, relishing the heat and the tightness he found there.

“Oh, you beautiful boy,” John murmured.  He took hold of the plug’s handle and twisted it slightly inside Sherlock, getting a throaty moan in response. Leaning over Sherlock’s back he whispered, “Relax for me,” and pulled smoothly on the toy, drawing it slowly but evenly out of his body while Sherlock panted through the sensation of it.

Without waiting, John tossed the plug aside and lined his cock up with Sherlock’s soft, shining entrance, still gaping slightly from the stretch of it and pushed in, slow and deep and all the way at once.

Sherlock’s hand shot back and clutched John’s hip, his fingers tangling in the denim of John’s jeans, holding them as closely together as he physically could.

“Too much?” John whispered, bravely preparing himself to ease out of the tightest, hottest most fuckable place he’d ever been.

“You’re bigger – it’s… exquisite!” Sherlock panted, his voice wrecked and ragged.

“Put your hands on the headboard, love. Hold on tight,” John growled into his boyfriend’s skin.

The change of angle was a trial of stamina for them both as he complied. Sherlock huffed and writhed, and John gritted his teeth and hissed. He’d been hard for so long now, he wanted nothing more than to pound Sherlock’s glorious arse and flood him, but Sherlock was hard again too now and John would have to be sure to hit exactly the right spot to bring them off together.

He began slowly, letting Sherlock adjust and once he had, and John had discovered just the right kind of stroke to make him shiver, he placed his hands on Sherlock’s hips and let go.

Alternating between hanging his head between his arms and letting it loll back against John, Sherlock was soon keening again, the muscles in his thighs tightening with John’s in counterpoint to the delicious sounds of John’s hips smacking Sherlock’s edible arse. Unable to widen his stance because of the fatigues, Sherlock had to work his hips hard to get as much of John as he seemed to want, and John wasn’t complaining on that front at all.

It took John longer than it should have to recognise the metallic chink as they came together each time as the tap of his dog tags as they swung against Sherlock’s chest with each thrust. Reaching around, John pressed them into Sherlock’s skin before sliding his hand lower to circle his cock, jerking him in time with his own pace, which was becoming ragged the closer they came to falling.

With a shout, Sherlock pulsed in John’s hand, muscles tensing in a way that John could feel course through him as he tightened rhythmically around John’s cock.

Sherlock became limp, only his grip on the headboard of the bed stopping him from falling and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s trim waist and held them both up as he felt himself begin to flood Sherlock, pulse after pent-up pulse of it as it poured into his body and out of John’s.

Breathless and boneless, they both slumped to the bed when the intensity had passed its peak. John had to make some swift adjustments to save himself from a nasty scrape from his jeans zip, and wiped his come-sticky hand on Sherlock’s sensitive groin in retaliation when he unwisely sniggered at him.

“Christ, I can’t leave you alone for half an hour to fetch us some stuff for breakfast, can I?” John laughed, stroking Sherlock’s hair off his face with a clean(ish) hand. “You’re a bloody menace!”

“Not to mention a disgrace to your regiment and to the Queen,” Sherlock rumbled, his face relaxed and happy in a way that only John ever truly got to appreciate.

“You know what this means, don’t you?”

“You need better hiding places?” Sherlock guessed.

“I ought to get you to wash and iron my fatigues before I put them away again, “ John warned.

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock smiled. “I plan on wearing them quite regularly from now on. They’re quite useful for relieving boredom as it turns out.”

And of course, John had to kiss him then.

 

Fin


End file.
